


The Opposite of Aloof

by hobbeshalftail3469, LulaIsAKitten



Category: Cormoran Strike Series - Robert Galbraith
Genre: Angst, Cormoran bounces off things when he's drunk, Cormoran pretends he isn't really very drunk at all!, Dr Nick, Drunkenness, Fluff, Ilsa's toilet fail!, Robin cannot speak properly, The healing powers of a fried breakfast, alcohol makes women love each other!, cosmopolitan is very hard to say when drunk, everyone gets very drunk, it might have been Robin!, love is......letting someone dip in your yolk!, potty mouth caused by excessive alcohol, someone was sick in a bucket!, the morning after, very bad hangovers, what exactly IS the opposite of aloof?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-07
Updated: 2018-11-11
Packaged: 2019-08-20 09:04:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,479
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16552898
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hobbeshalftail3469/pseuds/hobbeshalftail3469, https://archiveofourown.org/users/LulaIsAKitten/pseuds/LulaIsAKitten
Summary: Cormoran turns to Ilsa for advice and Ilsa fixes it. Kind of.





	1. Strike and Ilsa

**Author's Note:**

> Lula: I wrote chapter one ages ago, before Lethal White, as a chapter near the end of a fic I had worked out in my head, but really it was all for this sweet chapter of Corm confiding in Ilsa. Never got around to writing the rest of it. I sent the chapter to hobbeshalftail3469 to have a look at, and she promptly wrote a fantastic chapter two. Over to you, Hobbes!

Strike had nearly cancelled the evening several times throughout the day. But somehow he couldn’t face another night alone in his tiny flat or in the Tottenham, attempting to drown his pain in Doom Bar and failing. Perhaps good company would help bring him out of his misery, at least for an evening. He was almost starting to become afraid of being on his own, a feeling he had never experienced in his life.

He arrived at Nick and Ilsa’s door and was about to ring the bell when the door opened and Nick appeared, shrugging on his coat, keys and hospital pass in hand.

“Sorry, Oggy, mate,” he said, regretfully. “Got called in to work, we’re short-staffed. Have a plateful for me.” He hurried up the path to flag down the cab he’d ordered, and was soon gone. Ilsa called from the kitchen. “Come on in, Corm,” she said. “It’s shepherd’s pie.”

Strike shut the door, hung up his coat and went through to the kitchen. Ilsa handed him an open beer. “Nick just opened it, but he had to abandon,” she said. “You can start with that. How are you?” She kissed his cheek and hurried back to the stove to stop the potatoes boiling over.

Strike sighed. “I’ve been better, to be honest,” he said. There was no point beating about the bush. Ilsa had known him since they were six. He’d never convince her he was fine for a whole evening in his current mood. And despite his usual independence, he suddenly felt he’d appreciate another view, particularly a female one.

“What’s up?” she asked over her shoulder. He shrugged. Where to start?

Ilsa looked at him, considering. “Pass me the salt,” she said, “and grab the milk out of the fridge. Let’s get this pie in the oven and we can go and sit down.”

Strike passed and fetched, and Ilsa expertly mashed the potatoes, spread them onto the meat in the waiting casserole dish and put the whole thing in the oven. She dumped the dishes in the sink, grabbed her wine and another beer for Strike, took his hand and pulled him through to the living room. Her heart swelled with affection for her friend. She’d seldom seen him look so miserable.

“Start at the beginning,” she said, curling up on the opposite end of the sofa to him, facing him with her feet tucked up under her.

Strike sighed again. “It’s Robin. Of course,” he said. She was all he thought about these days, and he was so tired of constantly thinking and analysing and being miserable. “God, Ilsa, I don’t know where to start. I don’t even know when the beginning was, now.”

“Has something happened between you?” Ilsa asked, sipping her wine.

Strike looked at her. “Has she not said anything to you on your shopping days?” he asked. Ilsa shook her head, and he sighed again.

“She’s in denial, or she genuinely doesn’t care,” he said. “Yes, plenty has happened between us, but nothing that has led to anything. We kissed at the end of a tipsy night in the pub a couple of months ago. We were celebrating a case. Then on the Monday she behaved like nothing had happened.”

Ilsa raised an eyebrow but said nothing, letting him talk.

“She was normal at work for a bit, then she started flirting,” he went on. “And I got my hopes up again thinking something was happening. Then she and Matthew briefly got back together, and that was a bloody train wreck. I was so cross with her but I couldn’t say anything. It only lasted a couple of weeks. Things were pretty strained for a while after that.”

He took a deep breath. He was going to have to admit some complicity in the proceedings. “Then we had another post-work night in the pub and she snogged me again. I tried to stop her, but I’m not very good at saying no where Robin’s concerned.”

Ilsa smiled gently, nodding her understanding. Still she said nothing. She could sense he needed to get it all off his chest.

“And then she started going out with this guy that her flatmate introduced her to, and I was back on the sidelines,” he went on. “Except she would still say or do the odd flirty thing. It never felt like the possibility was truly off the table. She tried to snog me again one evening but I was a bit better at getting out of it. Eventually,” he added wryly.

He sighed. “And then when we were away on that case last week, she knocked on my door at midnight, and, well...”

Ilsa smiled gently again. “You slept together?” she said. He nodded.

“Like I said, I’m not very good at resisting her. And she knows it,” he said, a little bitterly. “She’d split up with the guy, said she wanted to be with me. And it was...” he tailed off. _One of the best nights of my life,_ he thought. _Passionate, profound._

“But in the morning she was gone back to her room, and she was awkward at breakfast and wouldn’t talk about it. And now she’s out tonight with Angela again, probably being set up with another young lad her age.”

“Oh, Corm,” Ilsa said gently, sympathetic without being pitying. Strike took a shuddering breath. Laying it all out so starkly made it seem so... inconsequential, somehow. A couple of kisses, one night in a hotel. Hardly a great romance. How to explain the feelings behind it all, the emotional rollercoaster he’d been on in the last two months?

“I don’t know what to do, Ils,” he said, and to his horror his voice cracked and tears pricked in his eyes. He hadn’t cried in years. He hadn’t felt this utterly lost in years. He ran a big hand over his eyes and took another shaky breath.

Ilsa sighed. Her heart broke for her old friend. Tears stood in her own eyes. She’d seldom seen him so upset. She put her wine down and scooted along the sofa to put her arms around him and lay her head on his shoulder. He rested his head on hers, breathing slowly, bringing himself back under control.

“Do you love her?” she asked, softly.

“God, yes. For months. Maybe longer,” he said.

“Have you told her?”

“I don’t think she wants to hear it.”

“But maybe you need to say it anyway. For your sanity, and to stop her treating you like shit,” Ilsa said.

He lifted his head and looked down at her, one eyebrow raised. “Well, I’m sorry, but she is,” Ilsa insisted. “You know I like Robin, but this is a crappy way to treat anyone. Maybe she doesn’t mean it that way, but she should give some thought to the fact that she might be hurting you.”

There was a long pause. Then Ilsa straightened up and patted his knee firmly. “Right,” she said. “Nick was hoping to get away with half a shift, he should be home by one, two at the latest. I promised I’d wait up for him. Let’s eat, and then let’s get pissed. You’re sleeping in the spare room tonight.”

Strike chuckled. “I didn’t bring anything,” he protested mildly. Truth be told, a night under his old friends’ roof was just the medicine he needed.

“Don’t need anything,” Ilsa said. “We can give you a toothbrush and you can sleep in your pants. Sleep naked for all I care. You need another beer and an extended fag break while I make your bed and get you some food.”

Strike smiled. He dropped his hand onto hers where it lay on his knee and squeezed it. “Thanks, Ils,” he said softly. She grinned at him. “What are friends for?” she said. “Go grab another beer.”

It had been a long time since they had had one of their drunken evenings. Ilsa hit the wine and Strike worked his way through Nick’s beer stash. Ilsa sent Nick an almost illegible text demanding he fetch more beers on his way home. They played music too loud and giggled about old friends from Cornwall, wondering what people were up to now and making up ridiculous imaginary lives for people they hadn’t seen for two decades.

“Gavin,” Ilsa said, “Now, Gavin, I think he went to lion-taming college and then ran away with the circus. He married a trapeze artist and lives in a tent in Hampshire with seven children, and repairs bicycles in his spare time.” Strike snorted.

By the time Nick appeared at half past one, Strike was stretched out on the sofa, his leg aching, while Ilsa floated about the room, half dancing to the music that played in the background and occasionally shouting another name of someone long forgotten so they could start the game again.

Nick paused in the doorway and gazed at them fondly, his wife and his old friend who had known each other all their lives. Strike fuzzily raised a beer at him, and Ilsa turned round and saw him and shrieked with delight, hurrying to hug him but spoiling the effect rather by tripping over the coffee table on the way. She fell on him and he caught her, laughing, and set her upright again.

Ilsa giggled. “You need to drink, like, four beers to catch up. Maybe five,” she said, squinting at Strike.

He pulled a face. “Might be a bit more than that,” he said. “Drank your beers. Sorry, mate.” He hauled himself up off the sofa. “Piss and a fag,” he announced, weaving his way down the hall.

Nick smiled fondly at his wife. “What’s occurring here?” he asked. Ilsa remembered suddenly and put her hand over her mouth. She was swaying a little now.

“Oh, Nick,” she said, tears springing to her eyes again. “Got to look after Corm. There’s stuff. Stuff with Robin. They’ve done snogging and shagging and stuff, but she’s out with someone else tonight.”

Nick pulled a face. “Oh,” he said. “Poor Oggy.”

“I know,” she said, hiccoughing. “He was almost crying, telling me. We need to mend him, Nick. I love Robin,” she went on solemnly. “You know I do. But she’s not being nice. I’m not her biggest fan right now. He deserves better.”

Nick nodded. “I’ll go have a chat outside,” he said. “Is the spare bed made?”

“Yup,” she said, wobbling a little. “Might go to bed actually. Feel a bit sicky.”

Nick grinned. “Go on, then,” he said. “You go and sleep. I’ll take over, and try not to catch up.”

“I loooove you,” she said, throwing her arms round him.

“I know,” he said, disentangling her and kissing her nose. “Love you too. Go to bed.” She nodded and wandered slowly up the stairs.

Nick went through to the kitchen, opened himself a beer and went out to the garden to find Strike.

“Looks like I missed a good evening,” he said, grinning.

Strike smiled back, drawing on his cigarette. Melancholy was descending again, but he was thankful to have escaped it for a few hours. He sighed.

“It’s all a bit shit, Nick,” he said, heavily.

Nick nodded. “Ilsa gave me the bare bones,” he said. “Is Robin being crap, Oggy?”

Strike considered. “I guess,” he said. “It’s hard to know. She could just be oblivious.” He barked a harsh laugh. “I think that might be worse.” How could she not know how he was feeling?

Nick nodded again. “So what next?”

“Fucked if I know,” Strike said. “It’s near impossible to work with her. But I can hardly leave.And I can’t exactly sack her for sleeping with me. So I’m stuck.” He raked a hand through his hair, paused, drew on his cigarette again.

“This is exactly why office romances are a bad idea,” he said. “I should never have allowed any of this to happen.”

“I just need to get over it,” he went on. “Why can’t I do that, Nick? I chose the job over Charlotte. Why can’t I do the same here? It’s not enough any more.” He sighed shakily, suddenly afraid he might get upset again. It was one thing to be weak in front of Ilsa...

Nick reached out an arm, clapped him on the back. “You’ve come thorough worse,” he said.

 


	2. So many drunk people in one place!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> OK, from this point on you really have to commit to reading this 'in character' - ie, you MUST pretend to be as drunk as we saw Tom B being in The Cuckoo's Calling.  
> Slurred speech is essential....and all spelling errors are there because they are 'sposed to be.  
> Robin turns up at the Herbert's house intent on spilling her heart out to Ilsa, not knowing Corm is there doing the same thing!

Ilsa was part way up the stairs when she heard steps approaching their door and a muffled knock, along with a familiar voice:  
“Ilsa…….[hic]……..Ilsa, s’me, Robin….I need to talk……if you’re asleep come down here and let me in…I’m knocking gently so I don’t wake you up,” then as she made her way to the door she heard Robin’s pure Yorkshire drawl come through, “Fuckin’ stupid….gorra wake ‘em up….whole point!” and Ilsa opened the door just as Robin was bringing her swinging fist towards it.

“Ilsaaaaaa,” Robin screeched, evidently in a slightly worse alcoholic induced state than her friend was.  
“Robin? What the fuck? You’re pissed….and you live miles away!” Ilsa stated, still blocking the door, mainly to prevent herself falling down.  
“A Uber!” pointed Robin in the vague direction of the street, “Must text Angela….tell her I’m here…she made me promise,” and she took out her phone and tried unsuccessfully to open the cover and send a message.  
Ilsa took the phone and typed in the end, passing it to Robin to send.

“What you doing here babes?” Ilsa asked, her previous feelings towards Robin apparently forgotten. “Thought you had a hot date?”  
Robin shook her head and pouted, “No! No dates….been gettin’ pissed with Angela and telling her all my woooooes,” the final word punctuated by Robin falling through the door and grabbing Ilsa’s arse to steady herself. “So, I needed to come and tell you…’cos you’re my friend…and his friend too…and that means you’re nice," and Robin stroked a slightly clammy hand across Ilsa's cheek.

Ilsa suddenly remembered her earlier discussion with Strike, “Actually Robin, I’m very, very cross with you,” punctuating each ‘very’ with a poke to Robin’s shoulder as they made their way into the lounge.  
“Wha? Why?” Robin drunkenly sobbed, “I’m a very nice person….he always says I’m a very nice person….but when he’s p’ssed,” she placed her fingers to her lips at the final word so that it almost sounded like she was ‘shshing’.

The pair fell onto the sofa, a tangle of bodies and legs.  
Ilsa picked up a partially discarded glass of wine, wrinkled her nose and began drinking from it, passing it across to share with Robin.  
“You’re not being nice…..’fact, I think you are being a pick trease!” and she held her finger aloft with authority.

Robin screwed her eyes together, “Who’s trick am I preasing? I haven’t been near any in a week….and the last one I didn’t tease it at all…..I was very, very, very [hic] very nice to it!” and she waved the wine glass at Ilsa, trying vainly to tap her nose, but mainly poking her own eye. “Can’t tell ‘bout it though…..but I want to!”

Ilsa snatched back the wine glass, “I know all ‘bout it…..Corm tol’ me…and he’s very, very sad….and you are ‘sponsible….so I’m not your friend,” and she nodded sombrely.  
Robin’s face screwed up and fat tears started to trickle down her cheeks making her already disastrous eye make up run even more as she rubbed at them and sobbed;  
“But…..I……just…..want…..to….be……cosmorolipant……cos…that’s…..who……he….goes….for,” and she wailed.  
Ilsa put down the now empty wine glass and wrapped herself around the wet mess that was Robin.  
“Robin…..what the fuck do’ya mean babes? Who wants you to be cosmo…lolipan? Tell me and I’ll tell them that you sooo are….you’re like, totally cool and ace and you’re my mate,” Ilsa switched back to forgetting to hate Robin and was back as her female confidante…..wine can do that!

______

Meanwhile, out in the garden Cormoran was on another fag, Nick was on his second beer and had, against his better judgement, got another for Strike who was busy inhaling it faster than his nicotine fix.  
“So you two slept together then?” Nick asked, eager for gossip if truth be told.

Strike nodded fuzzily and slightly lost balance, “Yep. Was fuckin’ brilliant mate!” and he drunkenly leered and giggled in Nick’s direction.

Nick raised his eyebrows in an invitation for his friend to spill more if he wanted to.  
“We were like animals….but….nice ones, beat’iful ones, like on a nature programme,” he stated, his face screwing up as he tried to express his feelings. “And then she just acts like….nothin’….like ‘nev’r happened. And I can still feel her…you know, mate?” he implored his sober friend to understand.  
Nick nodded, feeling his mate’s pain.  
He was clearly besotted with her – he’d known for a while that he was pretty serious about her because he’d started to drop her name into all manner of conversations, almost as though her name was a drug he required.

“You need to tell her, mate….even if she doesn’t want more,” Nick added, thinking back to how he fought for Ilsa when they’d broken up and how desperate he’d felt to get her back.  
“Ilsa said that. But mate….it’s scary as shit! ‘Cos I can’t lose her…..an at least this way I get little, tiny flashes of heaven……oh mate, it’s all shit! Strike kicked the wall.

Nick drained his beer, decided he needed something stronger and reached for the bourbon.  
He poured himself a glass and downed it, then poured 2 more, passing one to Strike, as much to get his friend back inside and not light up another cigarette as for any other reason.  
“Listen mate, you and Robin….you’re like me and Ils……it’s just meant to be, but that doesn’t mean it’s easy. When you see her, talk to her….you can’t be afraid of how you feel mate……in my very limited experience, the chicks dig a man who can show how he feels….and anyway, there is no way that I should be getting more action than you!” he winked and raised his glass to a grinning Strike, whose expression fell as realisation dawned:  
“Oh don’t tell me you and Ilsa are like rabbits again…..I’m sleeping under your bedroom tonight mate….last thing I need is you two squeakin’ away for fuckin’ hours…..”  
Nick refilled his glass, and the pair broke into ridiculous boyish laughter and sniggering at the mental images.

When they stopped Cormoran winced and shook his head,  
“You see….I can hear her voice….everywhere!” he gesticulated around the kitchen. “I can hear her now!” he commented and a pained, confused, drunken look crossed his face.

Nick wandered towards the living room and poked his head around the door.

\----

Robin and Ilsa were hugging and both sobbing by this time.

“But I love you Ilsa,” Robin snottily sniffed. “An’ I really, really like him……and he doesn’t want serious….so I have to be all cospomolan and like I don’t give a fuck….but I DOooo, I DO, I dooooo give a fuck…I give lots of fucks.”  
“An’ I love you too babes,” Ilsa sniffed back, “But, you can’t play with his heart…..it’s all broken again.”  
“Then, I will fix it!……I’ll be like Robin glue and mend it all better and not be a pick trease…...and....if he doesn’t want me, I’ll……I’ll…..what will I do Ilsa? Robin began wailing and sobbing again.

“But he does….he wants all the snogging and the shagging and the Robin stuff. Prom’is, he told me….that’s why we’re pissed,” and she held her finger infront of Robin’s face. She tried very hard to focus on it, but found herself falling forwards.  
“Who’s pissed?” Robin asked.  
“Me, and Corm….Nick had to go be all Mr Doctor……Sexy Mr Doctor Nick with his very, very clean hands,” Ilsa drifted off thinking about her husband.

At this point Nick moved into the room and his wife saw him,  
“Niiiiick…..sexy, sexy Doctor Nick…..come and listen to my chest,” she giggled. “Robin’s here….she’s pissed and sad, and not nasty Robin anymore….she is gonna fix it all,” Ilsa spluttered. “But, she didn’t know Corm is here…and she told me lots of stuff that they did and she likes it…all!”

A very fuzzy, deep voice broke through from the kitchen;  
“I can hear her…..everywhere…..s’just her lovely, lovely voice…like a bell…a pretty bell,” and Strike bounced along the walls as he made his way towards Nick.  
“Yeah, you can hear her mate ‘cos she’s in ‘ere!” Nick pointed into the lounge and Strike launched himself into the room in a shambolic stumble.

“ ‘Ello Robin [hic]……you’re looking very nice…we’re all having some drinks ‘cos basically I’m a tragic wreck. And you look very nice,” he stammered as he slumped against the bookcase to prevent himself falling.

Nick directed his more sober comment to Robin, who despite Strike’s comments looked like she’d been through a quick wash cycle on the washing machine, “I thought you were out on a date tonight?”  
Robin pouted and screwed her face up again and shook her head, whimpering slightly,  
“Nooooo…….not on a date….been with Angela, been drinking and telling her about how shit everything is. And I came here to tell Ilsa how shit everything is; and she’s pissed, and she hated me, but now she doesn’t hate me….she likes me again,” she vaguely tried to focus on Strike across the room for the last comment.

Nick nodded, “How come things are shit? Thought you were doing OK after that blip with Matthew…” at this, both Robin and Strike groaned and shrugged.  
“I only went back to him because the pers’n I really, really want doesn’t wan’ me….and I was stupid….an’ lonely….an’ stupid…” Robin hiccoughed.  
Ilsa butted in at this point, “…but she’s not a prick tease, Corm….she’s not….she’s jus’ tryin to be cosmololipan….an’ like the type of people you shag, Corm….an’ tha’s why I like her again, ‘cos she ‘splained it all!”

Strike fixed a bemused and slightly drunken ‘affronted’ look on his face, “I don’t shag women because they are cosmopolitan…..tha’s not what I want…….I jus’ live in London,” and he shrugged his shoulders, palms up, as if that said it all.

“But you don’t want me,” Robin pouted sadly, shaking her head. “I’m not tall, and thin and bea’ful enough. Jus’ kissed me an’ then shoved me away.”  
Strike began to wag his finger wildly from side to side,  
“I didn’t shove…..you……you ignored it….said nothin’ and didn’t want it….’cept when you did want it….and I thought I did good…. I thought we did good….” He trailed off as Robin interrupted him,  
“You did do good……..we did lots good….an’ all sexy an evrythin’. But you want alooooffff,” and she shrugged her hands at her shoulders.

Nick had downed a decent amount of the bourbon by this stage, feeling far too sober to be involved in the deep philosophical discussion that was taking place in the living room between 3 of the most drunk human beings he had seen in a long time.

Ilsa joined in again, “You do Corm…..you like aloooooffff women.”  
“Not…..not Robins though…..I don’t like aloof Robin….I like…I like…..wha’ the fuck is the opposite of aloof?” he gestured vaguely towards Nick who shrugged. “Well, I like whatever that is for Robin….I jus’ like Robin.” And he looked petulantly pouty towards one of the blurry, honey-gold topped images he could see on the sofa.

“Awwwwww…..tha’s nice!” Ilsa crooned as she pushed herself off the sofa and bumped towards Nick for a kiss, “Pee,” she announced.

“Tell her proper!” Nick urged, although the drunken outburst Strike was likely to be able to cobble together was probably not going to be the most poetic or romantic proclamation of love......but it would definitely be honest; Nick knew enough about his friend to know that when drunk he had no honesty filter!

“I ‘ave told her….jus’ said, I like Robin. I really, really like Robin…an’ her pretty hair, an’ her beau’ful smile an’ her fab’lous arse….an’ I want to kiss her all the time….but she won’ let me,” he managed.  
Robin sat up sharply, “Yes she will….I’ll ask her and she will…she’ll kiss you back with tongues and everything,” she announced.  
Nick pounced, “Why? Why will she?”  
“B’cos she loves him,” Robin ‘whispered’, “But don’ tell him, ‘cos he doesn’t want serious.”  
“Yes I do, I do want serious….I want serious with Robin,” Strike almost shouted. “Robin….come ‘ere,” he demanded, not quite trusting himself to move towards her without breaking something (one of his limbs or a piece of the Herbert’s furniture!)

Robin scrambled up from the sofa and stumbled into Cormoran’s grasping arms.  
He pulled her close and squashed her hard against his chest, breathing deeply her scent.  
“I really love you Robin,” he said, and then burped, “s’cuse me!”  
“An’ I love you Cormoran Strike,” she smiled as his hands gently, somehow, stroked the hair from her face.  
“If I kiss you now…….. will you vomit?” he asked sincerely.  
Robin shook her head and giggled, “…but I might fall over….’cos your kisses make my knees stop working!”  
Strike giggled into her head and they somehow shuffled over to the sofa, flopping down in unison.

“I’m gonna kiss you then…..cos I love you, OK?” he stated, trying to make the comment seem serious, but hiccoughing and spoiling the effect.

Nick heard an ‘oooops’ from the loo and went to locate his wife who’d fallen off the toilet trying to pull her jeans back up.  
He sniggered at the sight of her splayed figure…he shouldn’t want to shag someone in this state, but she looked edible.  
“They’re friends,” he stated, pointing to the living room, “Gonna snog!”

Down in the lounge, Robin and Cormoran were tangled together, their foreheads having finally located each other, each repeating:  
“I love you, Robin.”  
“I love you, Cormoran.”

Finally, Cormoran’s lips found Robin’s and placed a somewhat chaste kiss on them.

“I fuckin’ love you Robin,” he murmured into her hair.  
“An’ I fuckin love fuckin’ you too,” Robin garbled into his chest, breathing a deep lungful of pure Cormoran.

A few moments later both were snoring against each other, open mouthed and drooling.  
Nick walked in with the bucket and grinned, “Now, that is romance!” 

Downstairs in the living room there were contented whimpers and growls from Robin and Strike….and upstairs in the Herbert’s bedroom there were similar!


	3. You can dip in my yolk!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As requested, here is the 'morning after' complete with very bad hangovers, somebody puked and the feelings are all still there!

“What…..the…….fuck?” Strike ‘opened’ one eye and groaned loudly as he tried to lever himself into a more comfortable position on Ilsa and Nick’s couch.   
The fact that there was no throbbing bass music or roadworks going on was absolutely deafening and he clutched at his head in an effort to squeeze the excess alcohol from his brain and so speed up his recovery.

Robin’s body was slumped across him, face down on his groin….it was a potentially erotic image, but he could see a bucket partially filled with the contents of one of their stomachs just beneath her face……most things could raise him to arousal, but even he had limits!

He tried to run his tongue around the inside of his mouth to ascertain whether it was he who had been sick, but he had a fuzzy image returning to him of Robin almost punching him in the chest in her need to retch in the early hours. He’d instinctively passed the bucket to her and had a vague recollection that he’d held her hair and rubbed her back as she’d expelled what smelled like neat wine.

What a fucking mess!

Everything that had happened between them came flooding back – all the emotional wreckage that had led to the drunken evening, and the emotional wreckage they would now have to deal with as a result of the drunken evening.

Despite feeling like he’d eaten dried sand, repeatedly banged his head in a car door and had approximately 2 hours of sleep on an uncomfortable sofa, with his leg still attached, he had a decidedly warm feeling inside….and he smiled reflecting on the fact that it wasn’t heartburn!  
Robin had said she loved him last night.   
OK she’d been very, very drunk……but so had he, and he’d said it and he knew that HE meant it…..so there was a distinct possibility that she meant it too!

He heard a thump overhead; either Ilsa or Nick, or them both were awake.   
He looked at his watch and tried to focus on the hands – it was either quarter past ten in the morning or ten to three in the afternoon….he hoped it was the former so that at least he’d be able to get a little more sleep in the afternoon.  
Regular movement indicated that someone was coming down the stairs, and a few seconds later a knock was followed by Nick’s head appearing around the door and doing a slow motion recoil as the aroma of the vomit bucket met his nostrils;  
“Jesus, tell you that you didn’t kill Robin, ‘cos it smells like someone might have died in here!” he groaned, his voice sounding not dissimilar to Strikes after a few too many B&H.  
Strike flicked his head - then winced and made a mental note not to attempt that movement for a while - at the offending bucket, “Robin hurled,” he stated quietly so as not to disturb her.

Nick seemed to make out Robin’s sleeping shape for the first time and sniggered in his typical schoolboy fashion at her position, face down in Cormoran’s groin.  
“Don’t, just don’t……” Strike wagged a finger in Nick’s general direction.  
“I’m making tea, Ilsa’s in a right state upstairs…..do you want a cup?” Nick yawned and took his friend’s groan as acceptance.

The creak of the door as Nick ventured to the kitchen caused Robin to stir on his lap.  
She inhaled and let out a gurgling groan as she pushed back from her hunched position and realized she’d been planted face first into the crotch of the man that she had drunkenly declared love for and hurled her guts up in front of.  
Her mouth felt like it was made from an old espadrille; her head felt like it might have an actual hole in the front of it, and why was everything so LOUD?!?

“Mornin’” Strike, grunted, not sure whether he was thankful of being able to move his limbs now that Robin had removed herself from them; now the blood was returning to them he realized they were as stiff as hell.

Much as he would have loved to say that Robin still looked beautiful: honestly she didn’t!

Robin slowly moved her hand towards her head, trying to rake her fingers through her hair, realizing it was tangled beyond belief and gave up, instead she splayed fingers either side of her temples.   
She was still wearing a great deal of her make up…..although none of it was in the original, intended location on her face.   
She moaned loudly when she tried to sit up and tried to arch her back, but it felt like she’d been steamrollered in the night.

“Nick’s making tea,” Strike commented, managing to haul himself to a more stable seated position with both of his feet on the floor.   
He leant forwards and vigorously scrubbed at his hair with his calloused fingers, trying hard not to make his head wobble on his neck.  
This action appeared to render him slightly more awake and focused.

Robin winced at the sight of the bucket filled with the contents of her stomach and had a mental flashback to a few hours earlier when she knew, she just knew, she’d begged Cormoran to hold her hair as she threw up.   
It wasn’t the first time she’d thrown up infront of him, although the first time had only been down a phone.  
And she’d told him she loved him last night……and he’d told her he loved her too.   
She’d meant it…..the alcohol had only loosened her tongue!

She wrinkled her nose and groaned further as she covered her face; “Last night…..what we said…….do you still mean it?”  
Strike glanced across at her and grinned ruefully, “Do you mean, do I love you?” he received a fractional nod, “Well, looking at you now…….it’s touch and go!” and he flashed her his gorgeous, crinkle eyed smile before wincing and attempting to get off the sofa.

There was another set of slow, thumping steps and moments later Ilsa emerged – although anyone who didn’t know this was her home would have been hard pressed to match up the professional, smartly attired lawyer she was during the week to the shambolic, pasty faced wreck the now stood squinting in the doorway to the lounge.  
Without really taking in the scene she coughed; “Please tell me you didn’t shag on my sofa!”   
Strike cast her a scathing glance before responding, “Seriously Ilsa, do we look capable of shagging? And this….” He indicated his finger between the sight of him still trying to haul himself up from the 2 seater sofa, and Robin curled with her head almost burying in the cushions, “….this is an improvement on a few hours ago!”  
Ilsa gave a single guffaw, “Yeah, but Robin was really horny last night….and we all know you can’t say no to Robin,” and she caught sight of the bucket and gagged slightly.  
Without lifting her head Robin pointed vaguely in the direction of the receptacle, “Ilsa, I did that….horny became pukey quite quickly,” and at this point Cormoran managed to stand up, falling heavily of his partial leg as he tried to balance his weight. He continued talking, “….and I do have some standards……not attempting to bonk women who are projectile vomiting is one of ‘em! I need a piss….and a fag!” and he limped off, uncomfortable, groaning and holding onto the wall.

Ilsa flopped down next to Robin on the sofa, “God my head feels like hell!” she hissed.  
Robin just made an incomprehensible groan beside her.  
“So, is it all OK between you two? Please tell me it is ‘cos I cannot do another night of consoling the pair of you…..my liver can’t take it!” Ilsa shook her head and instantly wished she hadn’t.  
Nick shuffled in with mugs of tea and set them down before grimacing and picking up the bucket.  
Robin was mortified, “Oh Nick don’t, I’ll do it…it’s mine,” and she got up, taking the offending article and made for the loo to flush it then fill the thing with bleach and hot water.

Cormoran found the usual combination of a cigarette (or 3!) and very sugary tea soothing.   
He was well known for his ability to bounce back quickly after copious amounts of alcohol….but even he was struggling and the glinting sun through the clouds was becoming an issue.   
He cursed, stubbed out the half smoked cigarette and went back inside.

Nick, Ilsa and Robin had assumed slightly more upright positions in the lounge and were all on second mugs of tea; Robin cradling hers like it was a magical elixir.  
Cormoran joined them, perching on the arm of the chair, not wanting to risk having to get himself up again.   
Nick regarded him with narrowed eyes – maybe because he was thinking, maybe because of his raging headache – and finally asked, “So come on you two…..please tell me you’re not going to ignore everything you said last night just because you were drunk. I was slightly the worse for wear myself, but honestly I’ve never seen two people more desperate to be loved by the other one……you do don’t you?” and both he and Ilsa glanced between their friends.  
Robin’s eyes twinkled fractionally and her lips curled momentarily into a small smile, Strike inhaled deeply, “I told her how I feel last night, and I haven’t changed my mind,” he flashed his enigmatically seductive eyes at Robin.  
Ilsa cut in, “OK, does this mean you are going to give it a proper try together?”  
Robin pouted, but kept her eyes firmly on Strike across from her, “It’s up to her….I’ll go along with whatever she says,” he winked and grinned.

Robin took a deep breath, stood up and went across to stand between his parted thighs, he brought his hands up to rest on her hips. She grinned down at him, her eyes, despite still being red rimmed and blood shot sparkled into his, “Then I say, we should definitely…….definitely….. all go and get a fry up!” and the pair dissolved into giggles, foreheads pressed together. “’Cos face facts, right now the thought of fried bacon is way more attractive than this,” and she waved her hand around in front of her face, “….and I am definitely not snogging you until I’ve cleaned my teeth!”  
“Deal,” Strike grinned back, pressing down on her to help him stand up.

Everyone miraculously perked up at the thought of fried food; Ilsa managed to locate matching footwear, shoved her disastrous hair into a clip and found her bag; Nick for once agreed that washing the mugs could wait; Robin located and took advantage of mouthwash and a couple of Ilsa’s cleansing wipes to remove her ‘panda eyes’ and Cormoran….well, he just had another fag.

All four made the same, “Oooohhh…..” sounds as they stepped delicately out into the bright sunshine, but Nick and Ilsa’s local café did a mean all day breakfast!

They ordered and sat drinking even more tea, Strike and Ilsa regaled the other two with some of their antics from the start of the evening and their food arrived quickly, placed before them on steaming plates.  
Robin smiled at Cormoran’s expectant face and duly picked up her slice of fried bread and dropped it on his plate, she skewered a mushroom on her fork and held it provocatively above his plate, “Go on then!” he grinned, and she plunged it into the soft yolk of his fried egg, giggling childishly as she popped the gooey mess into her mouth.  
Nick and Ilsa exchanged a wide eyed smile, “Bloody hell….it really is love!”


End file.
